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It had been horrible. Sherlock had entered his mind palace, a place of solace, to find the walls crumbling. Sentiment, the promise of love, the thrill of lusting after a person only to be viciously thwarted had created a earthquake like sensation in his sanctuary, causing carefully stored information to tumble to the floor. His own feelings began mingling with concrete information; they were no longer the brilliantly simple facts they’d once been. It had taken a week of Sherlock’s time, mounds of cocaine, and trials of heroine to rebuild the palace. Never again would he befall the idiocies of childish emotion. His mind was a sacred sanctuary and he would bestow upon it the highest degree of security. He would make Mycroft’s protective obsession over him look like a child's meager attempt at hide and seek; closed eyes and convinced of invisibility. Such acts were below him.
The first time Sherlock engaged in sexual intercourse he’d been high; mind racing yet docile, overwhelmed by sensation and emotions, and utterly vulnerable. For once he hadn’t snorted alone as the foreign exchange student Sebastian expressed genuine interest in getting to know him. Blasted sentiment interrupted his normally rational thought process and he was lustfully taken aback by twinkling mocha eyes, tanned skin, and a devilish smile. Sherlock felt he had finally made a friend who understood him. The exchange student kept him entertained with cocaine, highly illegal experiments, and mysteries to solve. Their friendship was going well, brilliant really, until Sebastian broke up with his girlfriend and started flirting heavily with Sherlock. Innocent Sherlock, whose feelings for Sebastian had long surpassed friendship, who could easily recite how to bring both men and women to climax, had experienced nothing when it came to pleasures of the flesh. Other than a quick peck on the lips by a girl named Shelly in grade 10, which confirmed that he wasn’t attracted to females, Sherlock was, in every sense of the word, a virgin.
It was a cold, damp, rainy London evening when Sebastian appeared in his door room with the little powder filled baggie. The men preformed their usual ritual of making lines of coke; Sherlock had stopped laying his out almost one particle at a time when Sebastian told him that bordered on freakish, and snorted. Three lines later the room was aglow and the never ceasing observations in Sherlock’s head had stopped. Being high was incredible. He could finally think, make clear sense of facts, clear up and organize his mind palace, and understand the social cues Sebastian was giving him. Seb’s hand, which had innocently enough brushed through Sherlock’s unruly raven locks, settled on his face to caress his cheek bones, cup his face gently, and squeeze his shoulder. Obvious. He was coming onto Sherlock. What would this entail? Sex naturally. With Sherlock. His heart seemed to skip a beat (impossible but now the expression was understandable) as his hand moved of its own accord and rested upon Sebastian shoulder. His legs opened and he fit his body into Seb’s, granting him permission. Sherlock was nervous. Exhilarated, but terrified, everything was so clear. Fornication is easy, that much Sherlock knew. Even idiots can reproduce, or at least pleasure each other and Sherlock was not an idiot. This would be easy, mindless, pleasure inducing. It would new and exciting. Sentiment mixed with science. Brilliant, he thought.
He pressed his mouth to Sebastian’s who then tightened his grip on Sherlock shoulders and opened his mouth hungrily, sticking his tongue down Sherlock’s throat almost instantly. Messy, sloppy, crude; the work of inexperienced horny teenagers desperate to know pleasure. Sherlock brain was a buzz. He didn’t like this. The kiss was repulsive; it made his mouth tingle because of his feelings for Seb but the the actual thing in itself was unlike anything he’d anticipated, it was unpleasant and his brain didn’t hesitate to tell him so. Maybe that’s why Sebastian’s girlfriend had broken up with him. What a horrible kisser. Sebastian’s hands had moved lower, running down his back and gripping his arse tightly before undoing Sherlock’s belt and putting his hand under Sherlock’s black boxer-briefs. Sherlock held his breath, eagerly awaiting the touch of the other man’s hand on his sensitive flesh. This he couldn’t screw up.
What had followed had been rough, vigorous, and painful. Sherlock had bottomed, anticipating stars or quivering thighs, waiting for his prostate to be stimulated, and the throbbing ache between his legs to cease. It never came. Sebastian found release, satisfaction even, crying out in pleasure as Sherlock cock hung soft between his legs, willing the act to be over. He’d wanted to loose his virginity, thinking that his experienced friend would stimulate pleasure, and the fellatio would bring them closer. He believed the cocaine would only heighten his climax... After all, according to the literature it was almost always guaranteed for males. Almost. But the cocaine had only heightened the pain and made him exorbitantly conscious of the blood between his legs and the ache in his posterior when he moved or sat on wooden chairs. He was aware that immediately after the fact, Sebastian stopped dropping by during the week and only came one during the following month to snort coke with him. Something was amiss. Perhaps he’d done something wrong? Relationships were all about give and take were they not? Days spend researching the matter proved futile as they indicated that Sherlock would either need to change himself or that Sebastian was using him. Both options were unappealing at best. Sherlock had decided to give Sebastian one more chance to convince him that last month had been a fluke, a mere moment of imperfection, and that he truly did crave Sherlock. After all, it had been he to initiate the fellatio. Surely if sex was all he desired he would find it elsewhere with someone more experience and more attractive? He vowed to give it one more chance and so it was that he gave himself to Sebastian the second month, unwilling to loose his only friend, his would be lover. But the results were the same. Data spoke volumes to Sherlock’s scientific and rational mind; the part of his cerebral untainted by such tomfooleries as love. When Sebastian showed up at the Sherlock’s door during the third month, he had found the door slammed in his face, his bank accounts (all of them) emptied, his car towed and cubed, and his final thesis found plagiarized, stopping him from graduating. Looking back, Sherlock had realized that Seb had gotten off easily since Mycroft hadn’t yet embraced him god like stature with the damn CCTV cameras. Sentiment had been his undoing. Innocence and hope and cocaine made himweak. Made him feel. He didn’t care about the loss of his virginity but that he, the brilliant all knowing Sherlock Holmes, had been tricked, used, coerced, and he hadn’t seen it coming. His body was just transport for his brain, but his brain had truly believed the lie Sebastian feed him. Had licked it up greedily more than once. Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the loosing side. Of those who lost themselves to another undeserving of their brilliance, who had never understood the genius laid out before them.